London Drowned In Monochrome
by AMPebbles
Summary: After another hard day without Sherlock, John finds himself walking through the streets of London only to stumble into a rather dangerous situation. Good friends will be reunited, only to be torn apart again. Will our heroes survive this time?
1. Chapter 1

**Wow, its been a long time since I've posted anything on here... O.o Anyway, I saw a picture on deviantART and somehow came up with this. Here's the address to the picture, its amazing! You should check it out! art/Sherlock-BBC-Just-don-t-179070173 I did want to put some romance in, but it didn't seem to fit...**

**Enjoy!**

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That damn therapist was driving John insane. In no way what so ever was that woman helping him, to be fair she only made things worse. After each session it would take days for John to stop thinking about... him. This always left the doctor weak and vulnerable, a mist clouding his eyes and exposing him as easy prey to the world. If only he had never jumped, then they could still be fighting crime together. But now the world was a much darker place.

Tonight seemed blacker than ever. A particularly gruelling meeting with his therapist had dominated the rest of the day and now the night had been taken by shadows; busy London streets and abandoned alley-ways dulled into monochrome. No colour could penetrate the bleak overpass John was walking under. He'd left 221 Baker Street to go for a walk, try and clear his thoughts and cheer himself up from earlier. But of course it was not working; he only made it worse by choosing this particular part of town - he and Sherlock had passed by here on many occasions.

As each memory of Sherlock flashed through his mind, John felt more alone than he had in many months. Some how today was a lot worse than usual. It appeared that almost nothing could pull him out of his trance - not the screech of car tyres sounding nearby, a child's scream, police car sirens - until he felt a great weight being slammed into him.

From the shadows something had decided to attack and leapt on him. A man, apparently, as he now held John against the wall. Any other time, the ex-army soldier would have fought back and defended himself... today though, he simply couldn't muster the energy in his emotionally deteriorated state. Instead he found himself cowering with his eyes screwed shut, waiting for the worst to happen.

Something jabbed against his side. A gun…

Rightly he became panicked and started muttering incoherently. "Please, don't shoot me. Please. Just… don't."

His attacker leaned in closer until hot breath tickled his cheek. Seconds felt like hours as John waited for some kind of reaction. Maybe no shot would come, maybe one would.

John surprised himself when he thought maybe being shot wouldn't be so bad. He'd gone through it before, hadn't he? This time could be better as he may actually die, then he could be with Sherlock again. All of his sorrow could dissolve into nothingness, washed away by a stream of his blood. No, it wouldn't be so bad after all. All there was left to do: wait.

No further attack came, instead a voice whispered in his ear. "John…" It was a voice he recognised, one well loved yet unheard for the best part of two years.

"Sherlock!" The word came out as a relieved sigh. Instantly John's eyes flashed open, looking up and locking on to the consulting detective's.

It was really Sherlock Holmes; he'd achieved the impossible and come back to his John. There were so many questions – how did he do it, where had he been living, why had he ever decided to put John through this hell even if some of his intentions were good? – but one was even more prominent than the rest. _Why the hell was he holding John at gunpoint?_

He moved his gaze downwards to where the gun should be, hoping it wouldn't be there and it was simply all in his head. At the sight of it, a small handgun, he closed his eyes again. Not wanting to focus on the negatives, he tried to reassure himself with the fact he wasn't imagining it so wasn't going mad. At least he wasn't crazy…

"Sherlock," he repeated, quieter in a bid to stay calm, "what are you doing?"

There was something in the replying voice, the way it was slightly cracked and hollow, that told John something was wrong before the meaning even settled in. "I'm sorry, there's too much to tell you. I have to do this, there's no other way."

It was shocking, really, how fast Watson had snapped out of his subdued state. Just the simple sight of Sherlock made it seem as though none of it had ever happened, that Moriarty crap. Suddenly he was able to become his old, courageous self. "Are you going to shoot me, Sherlock?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

A rasping breath caught in Sherlock's throat and he fell forward a little, having to put a hand against the wall for support. "They're making me do it."

"Who?"

"I don't know, probably some people who I affected negatively on a case, but they found me. And now they're making me do this. When I'm done, they said they're going to kill me too."

"But why don't they just shoot me straight away and save all this hassle? Why can't you do something?"

Aware of how little time he had left, Sherlock began to talk faster. The longer he spent talking, the more likely the threat of someone else shooting John and his plan being lost. "They want to make me suffer, the worst thing they can do is make me murder my only friend. There's just one thing I can do to help you, even then it might not work. I'm going to have to pull this trigger, but I'll try not to damage any bones or organs. I'm so sorry."

John could feel all the hope he had for that brief moment fading back away. Sherlock had come back, but now it was all over for them both. At least they'd go down together and maybe see each other on the other side, whatever that may be. "Don't be sorry just do what you have to. I'm glad to have seen you one last time, Sherlock," he said with a sad smile.

"John, I-" Sherlock started, but then something cut him off.

A gunshot from somewhere else in the shadows.

The bullet implanted deep within Watson's stomach, a scarlet wound left on his side. Slowly he clutched the entry point, feeling the heat and pain take over as he fell to the ground. Strong hands reached out to catch him, lowering him gently until his head rested in Sherlock's lap.

Their eyes locked, John's beginning to glaze, tears forming in Sherlock's. "That wasn't me, John; I didn't ever mean to hurt you. I'm sorry for everything, just don't you leave me. John, stay with me, keep your eyes open. John!"

But they were beginning to close, and someone was coming towards the pair, a smoking gun clutched in their hands. The last thing John saw was Sherlock turning his head to look at the man, the monster, before he lost consciousness.

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**That actually ended pretty dark... And on quite a cliffhanger! Maybe I need to write just a little more, turn this into a two-shot. What do ya think? Let me know in a review or PM! :D**


	2. Chapter 2

**Well that didn't take a long time to write at all... I shouldn't make excuses but between exams and watching Love Actually for the first time (which really screwed up the way I see John) I had a lot of difficulty getting this done. Anyway, enjoy!  
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The wail of a siren. The clatter of a metal stretcher. The bleep of a heart monitor.

A few different sounds broke the vow of silence in Watson's mind. On a few occasions he seemed to be slipping back into consciousness only to find himself falling again as the pain, burning pain, took back over. Of course he wouldn't remember any of this; these moments would just be forgotten signals to a dead mind. It wouldn't be until his eyes slowly began to flutter open thirty-one hours after the encounter that he could really allow things to register.

The first thing he felt was the dull ache in his side. Tentatively he reached out his left arm to graze his hand over his hip but suddenly became aware of the catheter dug deep inside the crook of his elbow as he stretched the tube to far, causing the object to send a sting of pain right down to his fingers. After his initial wince, he withdrew that hand to replace with the other one which appeared free of needles. This time he found a large gauze underneath his paper robe stretching half way up his ribs. The slightest of touch set a fresh fire through his flesh and he felt a gasp escape his dry lips, tears catching in his eyes.

Suddenly the green curtains drawn around his bed were pulled back to reveal a young nurse. She rushed forward, quickly pressing a button that shot a jet of morphine into John's bloodstream before gently lifting his hand away from the wound.

"You shouldn't be doing that, Doctor Watson," she muttered. "I thought you would know better."

In his now drugged state, John was able to give a small grunt of amusement. Slowly he lifted his head to look at his nurse. She was a plain but pretty woman with pink cheeks underneath sparkling blue eyes. A crop of chocolate brown hair was pulled into a ponytail but lighter roots were visible. Obviously the colour wasn't natural then. Sherlock would be able to deduce a great number of things from that small fact, if he was here.

_Sherlock… _The thought of this blew a haze from John's mind which surprised him as he hadn't even notice he had been cloaked from the memories in the first place. He jolted up with a cry of "Sherlock!" but was pushed back into his pillows.

"Now, now. You'll be able to see him soon but Mr Holmes is with his brother at the moment. You should be resting."

"Mycroft? Who cares about Mycroft, I need to see Sherlock!" He tried to continue talking but the morphine was taking further control of his body, making his speech slurred. Maybe it wasn't just morphine; maybe the nurse had given him a sedative too.

John tried to fight it – he had to stay awake this time. Especially now, as he watched the nurse leave, pulling back the curtain to his left. His vision was blurry but that was Sherlock he could see. For a moment he couldn't believe his eyes, Sherlock lying in a hospital bed dressed in a paper robe seemed too surreal. Even more so when he saw Mycroft sat in a red leather chair beside his brother, umbrella and all.

_Hold on, _He told himself. _Hold on, dammit!_ But his eyes were feeling heavy and his breath was slowing. He barely heard the call of "John!" before he fell into a painless slumber.

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When John came to for the second time, his surroundings instantly registered as slightly different. The bed was the same, as were the covers, but the curtains had been pulled back completely revealing another identical bed a few feet away – they were the only two in the simple room. One door and one window interrupted the otherwise blank walls. Though these weren't the details he cared about. No, the one thing that really mattered was the figure perched on the partner bed, violin in hand. Gently he set it down, a huge grin spread over his face, before pulling the chair that was meant for visitors right beside John's bed. A curly mass of dark hair spread across his porcelain forehead, his pale eyes peering out from beneath the fringing. It had grown.

"How are you feeling?" Something was different in his voice, the care and sincerity at the base of the question shone through. Accompanied with this Sherlock's hand rested upon John's, their fingers lacing together. This did not have the same meaning as with ordinary people for this pair were by no means ordinary. Instead it just represented the fact that the world's only consulting detective cared for his friend very much.

"Like death warmed up." John tried to hold back his smile, honestly he did, but Sherlock Holmes was sitting next to him – and this time he wasn't holding a gun! "Actually, no, scrap that. Just death. Not warm."

For a fraction of a second Sherlock considered clambering onto the bed and snuggling (he really would have done anything to help seeing as it was all his fault) before he remembered the extra blanket folded at John's feet. Using only one hand and keeping the other resting with the other set of fingers, he pulled the rough orange material over the thin sheets. "Better?"

"Much." Though it wasn't. He just said that to make sure _Sherlock _was okay.

Silence fell for a moment, neither having anything to say nor wanting to break this idyllic moment with them both together again, until the words itching in the back of John's throat became unbearable. "Were you really going to shoot me?"

A grave nod communicated the answer before the words did. "Yes. If that's what it came to, if that was the only way to keep you relatively safe."

"And what happened instead?"

Obviously he was debating whether or not to recall the story or not. He'd been told not to by the doctors, but since when did Sherlock Holmes do as he was told? "Do you remember the man who asked me to get him out of Death Row in Minsk? Yes? Well apparently after a few years of appealing he managed to receive a verdict of not guilty. The whole thing has a distinct Moriarty feel but we shouldn't let that bother us now. Of course he had already spent many torturous days in jail so wanted to seek revenge as he thought it was my fault.

"Somehow he managed to find me though I don't even know how he figured out I wasn't actually dead – again, I suspect one consulting criminal. Once he found me in the homeless network, he found you and that's how we stumbled into our little predicament. My plan was to keep talking until the police came. I had an agreement with one of my homeless acquaintances to alert them if ever something like this happened so I was relying heavily on that. Unfortunately, our old friend was a little trigger happy and found I was taking too long. I'm sorry I didn't see that one coming, I haven't been thinking straight. Once you passed out I was able to hold out long enough before the shot got a reaction and reinforcements arrived. Fortunately the ambulance came soon afterwards too as I'm not sure you would have survived much longer.

"You were rushed into hospital where they managed to stop most of the bleeding but the bullet had caught your kidney. It had to be removed. After a couple of hours it appeared you weren't getting better and were placed through a few tests only to find you haven't had two proper working kidneys for while, only the one that was damaged had functioned fully. Once again you were taken to the operating room, now here you sit with just one of those damned organs. A few times you came around for a moment but you were in so much pain that half of your blood must be made up of anaesthetic and morphine by now. That should bring you up to speed."

That was a lot to take in, and John was panicking following the mention of Moriarty, which led him to decide that there was too much to be thinking about right now. One more question was bugging him though.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Why are you wearing pyjamas?"

"Did I not tell you who the donor for your new kidney was?"

"No."

Suddenly Sherlock averted his gaze downwards not wanting to see John's reaction to what he was about to say. He never got nervous but for some reason this level of compassion was making him feel just a little awkward. Never before had he cared so much about someone so much that he would decide to be put under to help them. No one could ever know, but he was petrified of needles and it would have been a great sacrifice if he didn't care for John so much. He had even let the doctors make him stay in the hospital for a few days. "Well… I, um… That would have been me."

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**Eeek! Crappy ending! But yeah, I loved the idea that Sherlock would give up part of himself to help John so that is what I wrote. Stuff about hospitals and prison may not completely be accurate but hey, I'm not a genius. And I didn't want this to be a Johnlock romance but I couldn't help but have them holding hands :3**

**I'm unsure if I can continue this story... though if I think of something, I would love to.**

**Anyway, please let me know about what you thought whether by review or PM. Muchas gracias for reading and hopefully for any feedback!**


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